Gregg's Bad Skull Day
by gandalfthegray
Summary: At long last... A GREGG STORY!!! As you might have guessed, being an Agent of Death can be a bit hard. What happened to Gregg in the game? What adventures (or misadventures) might he have to face? This is my first story, so PLEASE R/R!!!


(Disclaimer: I do not own Gregg, Conker, or any of the other cutesy little scumbags. They are all copyrights of Rareware, which is itself a copyright of Microsoft. All _other _trademarks are copyright their respective copyrights. However, The Lord of Darkness, Ignatius T. McFargleno, Rosented and Guildenbear (don't ask), and other such characters are copyright ME, so no suing. Arseholes. If you're still reading this, you're either mentally deficient or have too much time on your hands. Either way, stay OUT of my rhododendrons, for the last time.)  


Prologue: It'll make sense eventually (uninvited guest star!)  
  
Sodding cats.

I'm a victim of Circumstance, I am. Although sometimes War, Pestilence and Famine and their respective Agents like to torment me too. Anyway, Circumstance always causes problems for me, and most off those problems involve cats. And the odd wise-ass squirrel. And of course it wouldn't be just DANDY without a few bloody undead...err, unbloody dead...err...oh F***, them too. That IS how I wound up here, circumstance (not the Department of Circumstance, they're not in this story anyway). Chained to a pissing rock. On the tip of a cliff that overlooks the bloody eternal chasm. In the middle of the f***ing Underworld! 

Not to mention the fact that I look ridiculous without my cloak and scythe. What's the big deal, you ask? I'll tell you! The only way you'll ever be fit for striking fear into the hearts of mortals when you make your grand entrance (which is half the fun, after all) is when you actually look menacing, like a harbinger of doom, and I can name a thousand things more harbinger-like, and at least three thousand things more menacing, than a 3 foot skeleton. 

But, you may ask, how did I get in such a humiliating, ironic, and health detrimental situation usually reserved for villains from other Rareware games (*cough cough Banjo-Kazooie cough cough Donkey Kong 64 cough*)? And what are these departments I keep referencing in my rant? What indeed. Well, it is a long, tedious story, with thrills, chills, in-jokes and more morons than you can shake a T-47 MkII scythe at, but I'll tell you, if you're patient. It all started yesterday, at a pub called the Cock & Plucker...and what a pub that was. It's what I like to call...a dung-hole. Right, cue the flashback.... 

"What'll it be fer ya 'night, sir?" the bartender asked. I looked up sleepily. He was the same squirrel as the 'Sarge' who had evacuated Tedi isle earlier that night, at the end of the '3 hour war', as it was being called. 

"You're damn lucky that you weren't hit by a stray bullet, meatloaf-chin, or your soul would've been mine. You haven't any extra tails, you stupid git." 

"What?" The cleft-chinned nitwit in front of me (I think I'll call him 'Eddie') couldn't fathom what I was saying. 

"Er, Satan's Spit, please." 

"What?" 

"Satans Spit! You know, only the most potent... oh right, this is the Land of the Living... er, Hellhound's Bite." 

He stared blankly. 

"Shot of Brimstone?" 

He looked as if he thought me daft. 

I crossed my fingers and prayed. "Err.. Ring of Fire?" 

"On the jukebox, yes, but not on tap." 

I gave him a puzzled look until I realized that the author had planned this as a bad Johnny Cash joke. (Author's note: It worked out rather well in my opinion!) "Shut up!" (A/N: Make me!) "I'm not going to deal with this 'breaking the fourth wall' crap, because I've got a shred of dignity! Piss off!" (A/N: You can't shut me out forev...) 

"Why the hell are ya talkin' to yerself?" "Ah, I'm not, my author is just...uh.. oh never mind, you mortals wouldn't understand. Just get me the strongest liquor you have." 

"Whatever", Eddie sighed as he reached for a box on the wall marked DO NOT OPEN UNTIL THE END OF CIVILIZATION, until he realized that it had already been broken open, back in the eighties when New Coke was introduced. So, tossing aside a tea cozy with A/N: I'LL KEEP SENDING SUBLIMINAL MESSAGES THRU ALL CAPS LIKE THIS ONE embroidered on it, he made his way to a radioactive protection suit hanging on a coat rack. He zipped it on and began inserting keys into various locks on a large steel vacuum-sealed door marked 'Danger: Biohazard', 'Property of the Umbrella Corporation', 'Do not lick frozen poles', and 'DOPEFISH LIVES'. 

After 7 locks, plus a code panel (1138), hand scan and retinal scan, the door de-pressurized and opened. Grabbing a pair of tongs, he made his way over to a large keg on a pedestal. He unscrewed the top and, using the tongs, poured a large mug of the green, smoking draught. Gripping it with the tongs, he quickly ran back to the bar, laid it down, and said to me, "Ya'd better drink it quick, 'cos it won't be too long 'fore it eats thru th' cup." 

I sniffed it cautiously. "This stuff isn't even potent enough to get my eyes blurry!" 

"How would you know? You haven't got eyes!" 

"I haven't got a nose either, smart arse! I don't need one! I'm a bloody Agent of Death! And I..." my eyes wandered to an overflowing ashtray. "...saaaaaay, you must smoke like, what, twenty stogies a day right? How many more years left, I wonder..." my eyes focused on where his kidney ought to be. 

"Err...I just remembered sumtin' on th' house...heh heh heh..." He tiptoed away nervously. 

"Wait... what's in this stuff? What is it, anyway?" "Err... imported from th' Carribean...some place called Melee..." He lifted the bottle and read from it. "Grog, courtesy of the SCUMM bar, formerly the LUA bar, formerly the SCUMM bar. Ingredients, err.. SCUMM, kerosene, propylene, red dye no. 2.." 

A drop of the stuff dripped onto the bar, burning a hole through it. "Whoa! Easy there!" I lifted the glass to my jaw. "Right, then... one gulp." I quickly downed my glass. A bit of it fell on my cloak, burning it (and I'd just gotten it dry-cleaned, dammit!), but aside from a slight tingling in my stomach, nothing happened. "Well, It's alright, I guess," I said, nonchalantly, "but I've had a hard day, and I want to get royally drunk. Haven't you got anything more potent than this?" 

The bartender stuttered in disbelief. "B-b-but sir, t-t-that's been classified as the most dangerous substance known to man by 42 countries and a territory! We haven't got anything stronger!" "Well, I'm not a man, now am I?" I sneered. "Oh well. Here, hit me." 

It was no more than half a millisecond from the time the bell over the door clanged (I counted) that a strange blue fellow showed up on the stool next to me. 

"Well, here I am, Gregg, sorry I'm late, where's Conker and Berri?" 

"Wha...Wha...Who the devil are you?" "I'm Sonic the Hedgehogä ! The most popular videogame animal of all time! I'm already in half of the CBFD fanfics here at Fanfiction.net, and here I am again! So, here's the story: Dr. Robotnikä has secretly revived the Panther King and his Tedi army and..." 

"Whoa! Slow down! A hedgehog? YOU?" I burst out laughing. Whoever designed this blue git must've had either a bizarre sense of humor or a mental disorder. 

"Hey! You dissin' Sonic Teamä ?" 

"No, just you. And quit it with the ä 's." (A/N: actually, I like the Sonic games, and though he is in too many CBFD, Gregg's views are not necessarily my own. Gregg's just jeal...) "Shut up!" 

"You tellin' me to shut up?" 

"Err...actually, yes, yes I am. Youv'e already got 2400+ fanfics of your own, what makes you think you can move in on ours? Also, Sonic Adventure 2? Really sucked compared to its predecessor." 

"You picked the wrong 'hog to mess with, dude." He snarled, pulling out several ring-shaped shurikens." 

"Well, you picked the the wrong IMMORTAL AGENT OF DEATH to mess with, MATE!" I growled, pulling out my scythe. 

"You guys picked the wrong place to mess with....in. Could you take this outside please?" mumbled Eddied from behind the counter. 

Sonic tossed the shurikens at me and pinned me against the wall by my cloak. After I wiggled free, I remembered: I was carrying my swiss army scythe (y'know for a country that's always been neutral, Switzerland must have a damn good army). "Prepare to die, you early '90's throwback," I taunted, pressing the crossed-shaped context sensitive button and watching my scythe morph into some sort of weapon of mass destruction & mayhem. 

That is, if a rubber chicken can cause mass destruction & mayhem. 

For that is what appeared at the end of the stick. Though the handy LCD screen mounted on the handle identified it as the 'Rubber Chicken of Doom', anything doom-like about it was severely lacking. 

Exactly one quarter of a millisecond later, I realized I was screwed.


End file.
